


The Legend of Devil's Dyke

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Historical Setting, Devil's Dyke, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Pre-Canon: Good Omens, South Downs, but not the kind you're probably thinking of, gratuitous mention of cocks, just a bit of a laugh really, messing about with legends and folklore, mild though, rated way too high because of the mild violence reference, you filthy-minded individuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: The legend of Devil's Dyke, as told by one Demon Crowley.Or: how to defeat the devil with a sieve, a candle and a cock.





	The Legend of Devil's Dyke

**Author's Note:**

> For a rambling explanation of (the version I heard as a kid of) the Devil's Dyke legend, try [my blog](https://sameoldsorceress.tumblr.com/post/187290294319/sameoldsorceress-i-feel-like-a-whole-ton-of-good).
> 
> And [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devil%27s_Dyke,_Sussex#/media/File:Devil's_Dyke_-_geograph.org.uk_-_30789.jpg) a picture of the place itself.
> 
> (Niche fic from a former inhabitant of the South Downs, so pardon the self-indulgence and enjoy!)
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to Alison for alerting me to the broken formatting and jumpy tenses.

“I have had a Heaven of a day, angel. If you’re planning to smite me, can it wait?”

The demon drops into his usual seat to Aziraphale’s left, and the angel beckons for more ale. It’s not the best he’s ever tasted, but it’ll do, and Crowley looks entirely too hot and filthy to be worried about the quality.  
“Oh, I dare say a few days won’t hurt. What the devil have you been doing?”  
“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Playing at being the actual devil. His Eternal Darkness, or whatever he’s calling himself this week, decided he wanted some churches got rid of, to order, by a very particular method. Overnight. And guess who he sent to do the donkey work?”  
“Beelzebub,” Aziraphale deadpans, and Crowley hisses half-heartedly at him. “So, I take it angelic intervention is required? Where are these churches? Or… ah. Where were they?”  
“Oh, ye of faith,” Crowley scoffs. “They’re still bloody there, don’t you worry.”  
“Crowley, if you’re going to tell me the story of your terrible day, spit it out. If not-” Aziraphale’s had quite enough of the vague hints, and it seems that so has Crowley.  
“All right, fine. Keep your bloody halo on. So I got sent down to Fulking, right? Great name, that, almost rude, not quite- and it’s this blazing sunny day, really nice, I figure I can ruin a few picnics and be on my way. And then I get a message from the Boss.”

_“Yes, of course, Lord Satan, but- you’re sure there’s not a better way to get rid of those churches? I could set them on fire, for example-”_  
** _ “If I had wanted them on fire, Crowley, I would have sent Hastur. I want this to be personal, and I want it done with flair.”_ **  
_ “Oh. Oh, well, flair, if you want flair I’m your man-”_  
** _ “Yes, you are. So follow my instructions exactly, and report back when you’ve done it.”_ **  
_ “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Although, er, might take a couple of days-”_  
_** “I want it done by morning, Crowley. Tomorrow morning.” **And oh, Heaven, there goes the nice little loophole Crowley was about to thread himself through._  
_ “Got it, Lord Satan. Better get on with it, then, hadn’t I?” And the horrible fog clears from his mind, his instructions clear but no more sensible than before._

“So what did you do?” Aziraphale can’t help himself; he’s caught up in the story already. How exciting, to receive direct orders from your superior, a superior who knows your strengths and your worth, no less. Although, of course, his side is much better in every way.  
“What I was told, angel.”  
“And that was…?”  
“Wait until dark.”

_Waiting is dull, and there’s a decent pub in Fulking along with its doomed church, and since nobody else will be sampling the local mead for a while, Crowley thinks he might as well try one of everything while he waits. By the time the locals pour in en masse at around dinnertime, Crowley is in a somewhat expansive mood._  
_ “‘S genius, really, isn’t it? Oh, yeah, get rid of some churches! Just a handful, just in this one bit of countryside in particular, but let’s not burn it down, yeah? Let’s get fancy. Ooh, I’m the bloody devil, I’m gonna get fancy.” An old woman is glaring at him; he glares back and continues to ramble away to the small group of apparent regulars who are now putting their drinks on his tab._

“Oh, Crowley. You really can be so bad at this covert thing.”  
“Shut up, I’m really good at it.” It’s not the best retort Crowley’s ever come out with, and it seems he knows it, because he grumbles a little more before going on with the tale.

_Anyway, it gets dark. Showtime. Crowley sobers up and drags himself out into the hills. It’s just this big ridge of land, but it’s quite a big ridge when he looks at it. The South Downs, they call it. He supposes it’s all right. Except for this one bit of it, because he’s got to get rid of that. Dig a trench down to the sea, flood the villages, no more churches. Easy. All under cover of darkness. All in one night. With his bare hands. Better get to work, then._

_He digs, and digs, and at one point he completely loses his mind with frustration and throws down a great lump of earth. A grave for the devil, he thinks with a snarl, and throws down another. And one for his wife, if he has one. And then he turns back to his task, his full demonic form leaking out to make him look as monstrous as he is._  
_ “Stupid chalky hills, got chalk all over my hands now, all over my clothes, I don’t care if it washes out, it feels disgusting - oh, yeah, let’s dig a bloody great trench overnight, that sounds like fun. Doesn’t the devil get a spade?”_

“I think I get the idea,” Aziraphale interrupts, before Crowley can get any further off-track. “And did you make it? To the sea?”  
“No, I blessed well didn’t.”

_Some way behind Crowley, the old woman from the pub is watching. She believes him to be the very devil himself, and nothing he's saying seems to contradict that. The old woman knows three things about the devil; that a cock’s crow is harmful to him, that he intends to flood her village and many others, and that she is not going to allow that to happen. That is why she is standing out on the hills in the middle of the night, with a kitchen sieve in one hand and a candle in the other._

“A sieve?”  
“Shh. I’m getting to it.”

_Crowley glances over his shoulder just in time to see the old woman hold the sieve aloft, moving the candle she’s been shielding with her body so that it shines through the tiny holes in the utensil. The effect is surprisingly like the sun’s rays - and Crowley, who has had enough of digging, has a wonderful idea._  
_ “Oh no,” he mutters, loudly, “that can’t be sunrise already. Maybe I’d better go back to H-”_  
_ And from the direction of the village, behind the old woman, a cock begins to crow._

“That can’t really matter.” Aziraphale frowns at him. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve slept on farms before and never had a moment’s trouble-”  
“Ah, but Satan’s never slept on a farm. Not that I should be telling you all the trade secrets-”  
“He’s not really vulnerable to the crowing of cockerels?”  
“No idea. Lord Satan is of the opinion that when you hear a rumour that something can destroy you, you shouldn’t be too keen to put it to the test. As far as I know, he never has.”  
“And you were posing as Satan.” It’s best to be clear, after all.  
“He said he wanted it to be personal. Anyway, Hell doesn’t have a clue how I react to cocks, crowing or otherwise.”  
“So how did you react to this one?”

_The cock begins to crow, in the middle of the night, woken by the candle and, perhaps, even deceived by the false rays of the sieve. And Crowley freezes for a moment, then takes a deep breath and screams at the top of his lungs._  
_ “No! No, not the cry of the rooster! To Hell with me, and I’ll never come back again!” And he transforms into a small snake, hiding in the grass that has survived his digging. The old woman stares into the darkness a while longer, then takes her sieve and her candle and goes away. Her village, and all those around it, are safe._

“So what did you tell Satan?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly very aware that Hell is not famous for its tolerance of failure.  
“Told him the locals have weaponised cocks.” Crowley snorts a laugh, but there’s a forced sort of edge to it. “Had to explain myself a bit further, after that - he got the wrong idea - but he accepted that I hadn’t had a choice and the Weald is out of bounds.”  
“He let you off? How understanding of hi-”  
“Yeah, only a day in one of the shallower torture pits. The bruises don’t hurt much, or anything. Came here as soon as I got out, of course, but I healed them a bit on the way.”  
“Bruises- torture- wait. You came straight here?”  
“Yeah,” Crowley tells him, and takes a long swig of his drink. “This stuff doesn’t improve with quantity, does it? Oh, well. Same again, then.” This last is to the bartender, who seems, thankfully, not to have heard Crowley’s earlier words.  
“Why?”  
“Nothing else to drink,” Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale knows he’s being deliberately obtuse.  
“I meant, why did you rush straight here?”  
“Oh.” Crowley shrugs. “Thought you’d appreciate the story.”

That seems a reasonable answer. Crowley, after all, has always been a storyteller, a creator of vivid images and a skilled manipulator of the imagination. Aziraphale, by contrast, is an avid consumer, a reader and a vessel to be filled with such tales. It makes sense, in a way, that one should find the other when there are stories to be shared. And yet, for Crowley to seek him out even after being punished for his failure…  
“Well. If Hell wants you to be in pain, I suppose I should thwart them,” he suggests, and snaps his fingers to heal the demon.  
“I won’t say thank you,” Crowley tells him quietly, though everything about his expression is saying exactly that.  
“Of course not. Let's just say the next round’s on you.”

They sit and drink together until the sun rises the next morning; a cock crows, somewhere in the distance, and Aziraphale laughs.  
“No dramatic screaming this morning?”  
“Nah, you’re being very brave,” Crowley answers easily, and they part ways with a smile.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Legend of Devil's Dyke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20906927) by [appleduty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleduty/pseuds/appleduty)


End file.
